I was very active in the poetry and literary scene in Toronto in the late 1990s and early 2000s: I was editor of Word Literary Calendar, a sometime host of the Art Bar Reading Series, ran my own reading series at Dark City, and had a small chapbook press. All the while, I also was writing poetry and getting published, and feeling fairly happy with my work. But then another path took me in a somewhat different direction - well, a very different direction, as I got a degree in film studies. I still read poetry, but the time between writing poems grew from a few days, to a few weeks, to months. Maybe I lost what used to inspire me. Maybe professional stagnation and personal disappointments cast a shadow over that part of my creativity. Maybe I was tuning in more with academic writing, and a newfound semi-career as a film critic and journalist. I set poetry aside, not knowing if it would come back.
I also spent nearly a decade living outside of Canada. When I moved back in 2018, I ended up in Montreal. It took some time to find my footing, and almost as soon as I did, the pandemic and lockdown were upon us. Perhaps as a result of now being more settled, or the strangeness of a situation not encountered in my lifetime: poetry started to itch at the back of my head and heart. There were no in-person options in 2020 and 2021, but I was still in touch with my friend and colleague George Murray. One of Canada’s best poets, he was also one who (rightly) advocated that poetry could be taught; that one could aim to write poetry just for oneself, for one’s friends and community, or with the aim to be published; whatever your reason, it was a skill to develop. He had also started teaching poetry classes online.
A long absence, I decided, needed a fresh start; and even someone who had had modest success, could benefit from an approach that would waken that long dormant writing muscle. This seemed the way to bring poetry back into my life: as one of George’s class is titled, to build from scratch. In the past, relying almost solely on inspiration might have been too much of a crutch. Often setting specific boundaries and rules can bring out the poem, as much as waiting for the muse.
It didn’t take long for me, as with many others, to become used to meeting via video chat in those lockdown days. And what George’s class offered was a way to rediscover why I was drawn to the poetic form. George designed his teaching methods to a class of students with varying levels of experience: by starting with what might be thought of as basic forms, we learned to recognize and appreciate how a poem is constructed from the proverbial ground up, to discover older forms that we might like to utilize (or not), and how our own voices would quickly become apparent, whether we were writing a sonnet, a villanelle, a haiku, or free verse.
But it was also about understanding words and their formation, how poetry uses line breaks and sounds. Again, for those who have been around poetry a long time, this might seem obvious, but there is something to be said about looking at it with fresh eyes. George’s guidance brought out each student’s individual voice within the forms and methods he had us try. Even if it was a form or method we might not have enjoyed or found worked with our style or subject, this learning process not only helped me find my way back to poetry, but helped me understand why it remains the style of writing that is closest to my heart.
I might argue that it’s the form most closely connected to the human soul - we understand and often speak in metaphor, in simile, in using words and images connected to what we’re talking about rather than exactly as it is. Poetry is the essence of expression. And in a short-form world of social media and bite-size interpretations, it remains even more essential.
And it might be cliché, but it’s true what exercising a muscle does. I found myself writing down quotes I read, or facts I learned, in the back of my notebook, information that would later find its way into a poem. George also started a bi-weekly writing group, where he would give us a series of prompts. We could use the prompts as an assist to write a poem, or we could work on our own. Even the act of sitting at my desk, having a group of people on my laptop screen, all of us silently working away and then sharing what we’ve written, became a comfort and a positive motivation. Would being in the same room be better? Possibly, but these are now my poetry people, and if this is how we meet, it was and is working for me. My poetry is stronger than it ever was, and I find myself more engaged and enthusiastic about the art, and the work, of poetry. It’s not an exaggeration to say that poetry is helping me survive these very strange days we are experiencing.
I find that poetry asks us to focus and give time in a way that our minds and souls, even more so now in a world that feels increasingly louder. And what the online world has given me, as counter-intuitive as it might seem, is a greater sense of community. With colleagues as close as Ottawa, or as far away as interior British Columbia, with a group whose work is diverse in style and theme and subject, I’ve never felt closer to poetry and poets than I do now. Especially with a group who accept my often macabre metaphors (this is what more than a decade of studying horror and speculative fiction films will do to you), my work is helped not only from George’s classes, but from this diverse group, who make me see my own poetry in new ways, offering constructive criticism and encouragement. With a site on which we share our poems, ask for and receive advice on publishing markets, further education, or news and ideas about poetry, it seems that this online world has come to fit this stage of my poetry life.
In some ways there is no exact substitute for being together in person, but there is space and time for where and how we can find each other and connect online.
To learn about Walk the Line Poetry, visit https://walk-the-line.square.site/home
Shelagh Rowan-Legg (she/they) is a writer and filmmaker. Originally from Toronto, her poetry and short stories have been published in The Windsor Review, Taddle Creek, New Poetry, Carousel, and numerous other magazines. Her short films have screened at festivals around the world, and she is a Contributing Editor at ScreenAnarchy. She lives in Montreal. Find her at shelaghrowanlegg.com and on Bluesky, @bonnequin.bsky.social.
